#buzzcut!stiles

Stiles is rubbing the top of his head self-consciously. “What do you think, Der?” he asks, uncertainty making his voice waver.

Derek can feel his mouth morphing into a small smile. “Stiles, you look great. When did you decide to do this?” He's reaching his hand out to touch, but then decides against it.

Stiles rolls his eyes and grabs Derek's wrist to plop his palm on top of his head. “You can rub it, Der, it's not a big deal,” Stiles chuckles, and Derek immediately starts running his palm over the short bristles. “I think I just needed a change. After that pixie decided to try and nest in my hair, it was time to cut it.”

Derek winces at the memory of the little blue pixie wrapping itself in Stiles’ hair, making his scent go sharp with pain and embarrassment. It had taken them two days to coax the pixie out. And it took even longer to get the smell of the pixie out, driving Derek up a wall with how wrong Stiles smelled.

It had come as a sudden revelation, wanting Stiles to smell like him, to have their scents mix until they were so saturated in each other that people would have no doubt who they belonged to. Derek had been fighting the urge to touch Stiles all the time since, though Stiles always seemed to seek out Derek’s touch anyway. Derek didn't push his boundaries, letting Stiles initiate every touch so as not to seem needy.

Derek shakes his head, bringing himself back to the present. He startles at the fact that he’s still rubbing Stiles’ head and that Stiles has his eyes closed, humming contentedly.

Derek coughs awkwardly, bringing his hand back to his lap. He can feel his ears burning, his mouth slightly open in shock that Stiles would let him rub his head for so long. Stiles opens his eyes, and looks at Derek with a small smile, one that Derek has come to cherish as his smile.

“So what are you reading?”

~

It becomes a thing.

Derek takes to running his palm over Stiles’ prickly hair whenever he passes by, bringing his hand down to grip his neck for a second before moving on.

Stiles doesn't seem to mind, always catching Derek's eyes with his smile after Derek sits down near him.

And that's another thing.

They've been sitting closer together lately. Like, close enough to just barely brush their arms together if they shift to get comfortable. Derek thinks he might be losing his mind with every slight brush of skin and fabric.

~

Stiles is an English teacher at Beacon Hills High.

He's always coming over to Derek's loft to grade papers and mutter under his breath about how these kids don't seem to think he knows how the internet works, thereby knowing that they didn't read the book that's been assigned, but instead used sparknotes. Derek always just smiles at him indulgently and rubs his palm across Stiles’ hair and down to his neck to relax him.

On one such night, Stiles throws his head back and groans. “These kids are going to kill me, Der.” Derek just chuckles and rubs at his head and neck as he gets off the couch to make Stiles another cup of coffee.

When Derek puts the mug within eyesight, Stiles’ eyes go wide and he makes grabby hands. Derek grins and hands him the mug, looking at Stiles fondly. When Stiles catches his gaze over the rim of the mug, Derek can feel his face flushing hot.

Stiles sets the mug down slowly, eyes still trained on Derek, and stands up. They're close together now, almost chest to chest. Stiles looks determined. Derek thinks this is it, this is where Stiles tells him that he doesn't want Derek, doesn't want him to scent mark him anymore, that he wants him to back off and give him space. Derek's breathing goes shallow, eyes wide as his fight or flight instinct kicks in. But apparently Stiles can read his mind, because he brings his hands up to Derek’s shoulders, effectively rooting him to the spot.

Realistically, Derek knows he can break the hold easily; Stiles’ human muscles are no match for his werewolf strength. Derek doesn't want to move though, because Stiles is touching him, and he never wants it to stop.

“Derek,” Stiles says, whiskey eyes boring into green, “what are we doing?”

Derek blinks. “What do you mean, Stiles?” His heart is beating so fast and they’re standing so close together he can practically count the eyelashes fanning against Stiles’ cheek every time he blinks. He smells so much like Derek. He hadn't realized how deeply he'd rubbed his scent into Stiles.

Stiles’ eyebrows knit together in what seems to be frustration. “Derek, I've been doing everything I can to show you that I want this, us. I come here every day, sit close to you, touch you at every opportunity. I let you rub my hair. I don't even let Scott touch my hair.”

Derek rears back a little, eyes wide with shock, sure that he's wrong. Scott and Stiles are always hanging off each other, how is it possible that Stiles doesn't let Scott touch his hair? Now that he thinks about it though, Stiles always makes sure to lean his head away from Scott's hands, ducking at the last second to push at his shoulders.

Derek focuses back in on Stiles, who's staring at him with that little smile. “Why me?” he can't help but ask. He doesn't believe it, can’t believe it. Stiles wants him?

Stiles shakes his head like he thinks Derek's being stupid. “I love you, you idiot.” And suddenly, Stiles’ lips are on his and it feels like he’s falling. His eyes slip closed as he sinks into the kiss. His hands find their way to Stiles’ hips, fingers slipping under the t-shirt Stiles is wearing.

Stiles pulls back to rest their foreheads together, noses bumping gently, and there's a twinkle in his eyes that has Derek going weak at the knees.

“I love you, too,” Derek breathes. He's afraid if he says it any louder the moment will disappear forever. But it doesn't. Stiles is there, staring at Derek like he hung the moon.